Richard Cory's bullet
He ate Richard Cory's bullet
and never told me why.
But perhaps the warp and weft
of life would have been too much,
not enough, to explain it all away.
His hand in the mailbox, sideways;
laughing, he said the letter had no stamp
and he remembered just as he let it go.
But it came, postage due,
trickled to my keeping, with the news
of his death. Thirty-two cents.
How like him, how like,
to pay with a life the cost of a stamp,
and steal from my pockets the cost of his love,
and eat filet mignon the day of his death,
and eat gunpowder for dessert.